


Scarlet

by DHW



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BDSM, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 13:18:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7686001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DHW/pseuds/DHW
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It begins with a book, as always...</p><p> </p><p>(Aug 2007).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scarlet

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters. They belong to JKR. I make no money from this piece of fiction. 
> 
>  
> 
> **_For Shiv5468._ **

~*~

We all have a fantasy. It’s part of what makes us, us. What separates us from the animals. I have a few: being taken over the desk in my old office, the hardwood legs creaking, for one. The man changes with my mood. Sometimes it’s a Latino sex-god with skin like sin and a voice that’s just as dirty. Other times it’s a gothic nightmare with a whip-thin body and glossy red lips. But it’s always the devil in disguise, for only he could do something so wickedly delicious. And that’s just the way I am. It’s the way I like it.

Of course, not all fantasies are sexual in nature. Fantasies are about contact, and I don’t just mean the physical kind. To be loved is the ultimate fantasy, is it not? It’s what every man and woman wants from life. And the act of love involves nothing but emotion. Not words, not thoughts, not actions. To love another costs nothing but a little dignity. Which is fine, if you’ve got some to spare. 

I’m not in love, and I doubt I ever will be. I haven’t got the time or the inclination to nurture along some budding relationship with a man I hardly know. The thrill is in the chase, not the capture. But that doesn’t mean I won’t take what fate offers me. No, I grab that with both hands and hold on tight. My job is to provide the fantasy. 

I’m good at my job. There’s no need for me to be modest; I know I’m good. I have to be to keep them coming back. Though ‘them’ is a small number, three to be exact, I like to keep within good standing – I’ve always been choosy about my partners, and I can’t afford to isolate them. Besides, they treat me well, Misters Green, Black, and Silver. Especially Mr Silver. I think I’d miss him the most if he ever left. 

I’d known Mr Silver long before he sought my company. A figure from my childhood, I remember him as a cruel, arrogant man with little time for people like me. Though maybe that’s what attracts him so. He’s difficult to figure out, for his agenda is always hidden under a thick layer of deception and charm. He’s intelligent too, though he may not choose to broadcast it. A man of many talents and little truth. And I _know_ that’s what attracts me. He’s a man of mystery, and isn’t that what every woman wants?

The terms of our contract are simple. 

1\. He refers to me as Miss Scarlet and not by my given name. Names are important, and to give him permission to use my own would be to give him power. And power, in the wrong hands, is a terrible thing. Besides, I think he prefers it this way. It distorts my image, helps him to convince himself he’s not shagging a woman young enough to be his daughter and a Mudblood to boot.  
2\. He takes heed of my every word. I will not repeat myself over things so trivial, and he must learn to listen. It’s important to listen.  
3\. He stops when I tell him no. Far too many of us have been hurt by overly enthusiastic partners, and I do not wish to be part of that number. There’s no fun to be had in being a statistic. 

Breaking the contract will result in the termination of our little liaisons. And somehow, I don’t think his Sunday nights will be just as exciting without me.

~*~

It begins with a book, as always. As per his request, I sit on one of the many hard-backed chairs in the room with the book in my lap, pretending to read. My skirts, specially tailored for this particular liaison, fan out over the chair legs in a sea of deep red. I always wear red, no matter how much he tries to convince me to do otherwise.

I don’t look up as he enters the room. I know he’s there; I can see the doors open in my peripheral vision. Besides, it’s his time, and he is never late. 

The old grandfather clock in the corner chimes, the ringing of the bell masking the sharp sound of his boots upon the wooden floor. I can see the shine on them, illuminated by the last light of the evening currently pouring through the flimsy net curtains. And I wait for the words that tell me to begin. It’s always the same. 

“You are out of bounds, Miss Scarlet.”

I look up and school my expression into something I hope resembles surprise. I can see his eyes; they glint with malice. 

“And reading a book of mine too, I see. Without my permission.” 

“I beg your pardon, Mr Silver, but I was unaware the library was a private room.”

We aren’t in the library; we’re in a room specially built for this. But it doesn’t matter, the illusion cast on the walls holds true until he utters _the word_. 

He looks down his nose at me, his expression solemn. I keep my cool. The time for action comes soon. 

“Private or not, it is often considered prudent to ask the host before settling oneself in with their property.” His mouth curves into a sneer as he pauses to deliver the blow. “But the absence of good manners may be excused by your lack of decent breeding. I suppose perfection cannot be expected from a _Mudblood_ such as yourself.”

My cue. And expertly delivered.

The image of books and bookshelves begins to dissolve around us, as does the window. Dark stone and torch brackets swim into view. Chains and whips and hooks cover the walls, all black, assembled and ready to use. It’s quite a comprehensive collection of tools, and all at my immediate disposal. I feel I can breathe again. I’m in my element here. 

I rise, slamming the book on the floor. I feel a little awful for mistreating a book in such a way, but his flinch makes it worthwhile. The corset forces my back straight, and I draw up to my fullest height, looking him straight in the eyes. Grey and misty, they swirl with both anger and anticipation. He knows what comes next. 

“Really, Mr Silver, I thought petty insults were beneath you.” 

“Quite to the contrary, my dear Miss Scarlet. I delight in them.” He lifts his cane, hooking the handle beneath my chin and forcing it upwards. The snake on the tip bites into my skin. 

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to anger powerful witches?” I hiss, injecting as much venom into the words as I can. Slowly, I begin to reach behind my back, searching for the wand held in the ribbons of my corset. He doesn’t notice. Or if he does, he gives no indication.

I ease it free, grasping it between my fingers. The weight is a comfort. I flex my wrist, ready to go for the kill. He leans closer until his robes almost touch the front of my dress. 

“Never,” he whispers, and I draw. A well placed hex sends him to the floor, his robes fluttering in an invisible wind. His knees crack as they hit the hard wood, and I feel the sharp sting of remorse. I was too hard. Pain should be warranted, as should pleasure. 

“ _Adligare_ ,” I say before he can get up. Ropes shoot from the floor, wrapping around his wrists and his ankles. They tighten with a flick of my wand, drawing him to his hands and knees until he kneels like a dog before me. I like him on the floor. He makes such a beautiful pet. 

His cane lies just a few steps away. He dropped it when the curse hit. I pick it up, the black wood cool beneath my fingers. It’s of a good weight and stiffness, firm but not brittle. I slap it against my palm, ignoring his groan, analysing the sting it leaves. Hot tingles course up my arm, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. Perfect. 

Head held high, I walk over to him. My feet make barely a sound, but the creaking of the bones in my corset makes up for that. His eyes bore into mine as he struggles against the ropes that hold him. Make no mistake, he wants this (me), but a lifetime of arrogance and pride is hard to ignore. It’s endearing to know he hates himself for this. 

“It seems you are in somewhat of a predicament, Mr Silver.” I hook the head of the cane underneath his jaw, drawing back his head, mimicking his earlier gesture. His eyes close a little as he fights to keep me in focus. Even from here I can hear him breathing, the harsh intake of air providing a staccato rhythm to the proceedings. 

“Untie me,” he gasps. He doesn’t mean it; it’s just part of the fantasy. I can tell. His nose twitches when he lies. 

I slap him for his cheek on the cheek, which I feel is quite fitting. It makes a perfect sound, echoing off the walls. The skin turns a bright red, the imprint of my fingers clear upon his face. 

“I see no reason why I should,” I say, my voice cold. “You have yet to learn your lesson. Swear you will obey me.” His eyes glint, and he tries to pull away. I push the cane further into his neck. A threat. “Swear it,” I growl, pretending not to notice the shiver that goes through him at my words. 

His eyes go half-lidded, and his words escape in a hiss. “Yes, Miss. I swear.” 

A smile reaches my lips. I reach out, pressing my palm to his cheek. He leans into the touch, despite his resolve. The tip of my thumb traces his high cheekbone. It’s still red with the sting of my palm. “You make such a pretty pet.”

And he does. He looks like Lucifer himself, his long blond hair flowing across his back like shimmering water, his eyes alight with the fire of hell. A beautiful sin, if ever there was one. He could tempt even the archangels to the dark, promising them so much more than lust.

“But what to do with you,” I murmur. Letting the cane slide out from beneath his chin, I watch as his head drops. Angry red marks decorate the skin on his neck. They will bruise. 

With a deft snap of the wrist, I remove my skirt. It falls to the ground in a whisper of silk and perfume. Underneath I wear nothing but a pair of sheer stockings and a red suspender belt; knickers are an unnecessary complication. 

Stepping out of the pile of fabric, I begin to circle him, dragging my fingertips over his arched back. He’s wearing far too many layers, but the problem is easily remedied with a flick of my wand. His robe and shirt disappear, leaving him clad only in the thin black trousers he wears beneath. A better view by all accounts. He’s hard already, judging from the bulge in the front of his trousers. 

He shivers slightly as I run a finger up his spine, my nail scraping against his skin. A trail of red follows my path. He marks so easily, yet his skin is hard to break. He has yet to shed blood by my hand, but I’m not going to push the issue. It’s messier than it seems and far too precise a science for my taste. A slip of the wrist and you can do some serious damage. 

With little warning, I whip the length of the cane across the backs of his thighs. Not too hard, I don’t want to break him. I take care of my pets. 

He flinches, arching his back in an unconscious effort to ease the pain. His breath is harsh, whistling in and out of his nose as he fights the stinging sensation. 

“Back straight, head down,” I tell him. I feel powerful and more than a little sadistic, hitting him with his own cane. It’s a heady sensation, and I flush a little.

I hit him again, only higher this time. It lands squarely across his arse, the sound muffled by the fabric of his trousers. Satisfied with his reaction, I place more blows there, careful to strike each cheek with an equal amount of force. The art of symmetry is a seductive thing. Goosebumps rise over his back and his arms, the fine webbing of his skin tightening with approval and desire. He’s so beautiful when he’s like this, reduced to all but his flesh and lusts. 

I can’t help but push him further, hitting him harder though no higher. It’s dangerous to hit too high. He lets out a long, deep moan, tilting his head back. His hair becomes stuck to the faint sheen of perspiration on his back, curving down his spine like a silver snake. 

He’s enjoying it far more than he should. Time for a new approach. 

I press my palm flat against his back, sliding it down until I reach the sharp curve of his arse. I give it a quick squeeze, deepening the sting. He pushes back against me. He wants more, but I’m going to make him work for it. I nudge him in the side with the tip of his cane.

“Not yet, pet. You have to earn your keep.”

Dragging the cane up his bare ribs until it reaches the curve of his shoulder, I move around until his face is level with my shins. I sit down in front of him, grasping his chin and pulling him down until his forearms are flat on the floor. Spreading my legs wide, I lean back and watch as he goes down. His hair caresses my inner thighs; the feel of silky strands makes me shiver in anticipation. Arching my back, I move closer. I close my eyes, concentrating hard as his hot breath blows against me. 

Fire shoots through my veins as the very tip of his tongue swipes across my clit, and I drop the cane. It clatters to the floor beside me, the only sound besides our breathing. I’d forgotten how adept he is at this particular game. I let out a moan as he works his way down, dipping in and out of me with more than a little enthusiasm. He brings me to the edge quicker than I had anticipated, and I stop him before my orgasm takes hold. Control is an important aspect of our relationship; I have to control myself as much as I do him. 

He draws back on my command, licking his lips. They shine in the light, smeared with the scent and taste of me. 

Acting on impulse, I rise up onto my knees and lean forward. My hand tangles deep in his hair as I pull him closer, my fingernails scraping across his scalp. Our lips meet, and I force my way into his mouth. He tastes of me and mint and something else, something unique to him. Whatever it is, it’s intoxicating, and I find myself kissing him harder and deeper, my tongue duelling with his for dominance. Though he’s no newcomer to this game, his subconscious still refuses to let me dominate him. Submission is not just a question of command; it takes practice and patience. And he has yet to learn. 

“ _Cubare,_ ” I whisper against his lips, and I feel him move away. The ropes around his wrists and ankles disintegrate as the spell forces him on his back. I straddle him across the chest, ensuring he can’t move from his new position. No ropes this time; I want to test him to his limits. 

Locking my knees, I dig my heels hard into his sides, letting them rest just above his hip bones. He grunts, and I jab him a little harder. He likes it more than he lets on. Good boy. 

I place my hands upon his shoulders, my palms just grazing the top of his collarbone and press down hard until his back arches up a little further. His head tilts with the movement, and his eyes flutter shut. The muscles in his upper arms twitch, and I know what’s going to happen next. He’s on autopilot it seems, working with natural instinct alone. 

“Hands flat on the floor,” I snap. I have to break this before it becomes a bad habit. The man has to learn control, and what better way to teach him than through tactile deprivation? He belongs to me; therefore, when and where he touches me is entirely at my discretion. He’s not ready. He doesn’t _want_ it enough, yet. 

“Oh my poor pet, what a pickle of a situation you’ve found yourself in. Overpowered and outmanoeuvred by a woman like me.” I can see a little defiance in his eyes. He doesn’t like my words; they hit too close to home. My hands tighten around his shoulders, my nails digging into the soft flesh of his back. “Tell me, pet, how does it feel to know your soul belongs to me? To a woman of dirty thoughts, dirty deeds and dirty blood? Does it hurt to know you’ve fallen so far?”

He begins to struggle and I fear I may have pushed a little too far this time. But the safeword doesn’t pass his lips. Maybe he is just testing his boundaries. Or, perhaps, he has forgotten himself. My hands clamp down on his wrists, pressing them to the ground with all my weight. Stronger he may be, but I am in the most advantageous position. Lowering my head to his neck, I bite down hard until he stills beneath me. I’ll leave a mark, but that was my intention. 

“Within these walls you belong to me.” I frown. “You will do well to remember that in future. If you wish to stop, then you will use the safeword. Do you wish to stop?”

His eyes are mutinous, but his tone is civil. “No, Miss Scarlet,” he says.

“Good.” I release his wrists, my hands running up his arms. He shivers. I know he won’t move now. I slide back until I sit on his pelvis rather than his chest. He’s hot and hard beneath me. It seems he approves of a little verbal humiliation. I file that away for later reference; it could make our next session very interesting, indeed.

He moans as I begin to rock against him. His back arches, and he brings his hands up as if to grasp my hips, but then he remembers my command. His hands hit the floor again with a loud smack. I reward him for his obedience, dragging my fingers down his chest and circling his nipples. His face contorts as he fights to keep control of himself. But as fun as teasing him is, I soon tire of this game. My knees are beginning to throb from being down so long, and as clichéd as it sounds, I ache to have him inside me. 

Deftly, I undo the front of his trousers, my fingers popping each of the tiny black buttons from its hole. He’s not wearing underwear, but that’s no surprise; he never does. His cock rises hot and hard from a thatch of blond hair, the head flushed red. I take pride in being one of the select few who know that the collar matches the cuffs.

With little ceremony, I position him at my entrance and drop down, groaning as he fills me. He groans too, but does nothing more. He won’t until I tell him to. I’m impressed at his control. He usually gives into temptation long before now.

Slowly, I begin to ride him, rolling my hips each time he hits bottom. On the edge of my vision, I can see his fists clench and unclench, the only sign of his internal struggle between lust and obedience. My pace increases, dropping down harder and harder each time until he finally breaks. His hands grasp my waist and his hips flex, ramming himself into me as hard as he can. I’m too far gone to correct him now. That is a lesson for another day. 

It doesn’t take long for us to finish. I come only moments before he does. 

Spent and lethargic, I collapse on top of him. I can feel his chest rise and fall rapidly as he tries to catch his breath. He’s not as young as he used to be, and it takes him a little longer to recover. Absentmindedly, I run my fingers through his hair, watching as the strands flow through my fingers like water. I know I have to leave soon but I want, no, _need_ these stolen moments as much as he does. I need to know that I’m not a monster.

I wait until he falls asleep before I take my leave. I always do. Fixing my skirts and my hair, I walk to the door and back into the real world. Back to being plain old Hermione Granger, Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic, illicit lover of Lucius Malfoy.


End file.
